Tender is the Heart (The MacCallens and Randalls #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

F urious.

Confused.

And utterly terrified.

That was how Margaret MacCallen was feeling as she stood at the altar in front of the kirk. Her future was not her own. But then, it hadn’t been in a good number of years.

An agreement had been made betwixt her laird, Connor MacCallen, and Aiden Randall, the chief of the Randall clan. Margaret, as a means of bringing peace betwixt the two clans, was being married off to Aiden—a man she had only just met the night before. A complete stranger.

However, she knew the truth of the matter. This wasn’t just a means for peace; this was her punishment for all of the terrible, wicked things she had done over the years. None of which she had taken any enjoyment in doing, mind you. Nay, she was simply trying to keep her head firmly affixed to her neck. And to keep her deepest, darkest secret completely buried.

When their clansmen made the suggestion to, “hang the arrogant wench right next to her mother,” it was immediately quashed. Onnleigh, Connor’s soon-to-be wife, had stepped in and begged for mercy.

“She saved our daughter’s life, Connor. I will nae repay her by seein’ her hanged.”

For the life of her, Margaret couldn’t understand why Onnleigh wasn’t angrier with her and her mother, Helen. Were it not for Helen’s conniving, hateful ways, none of the events of the past few weeks would ever have happened. Onnleigh wouldn’t have come to close to dying on a pyre, accused of being a witch. Her daughter, Nola, would never have been taken from her.

Margaret’s only saving grace was the fact that she had, for the first time in her life, denied one of her mother’s orders. Helen had ordered her to take the babe to the fairy tree, to leave her to die.

’Twas the easiest decision Margaret had ever made, to go against her mother. While Margaret was many things, she was not the murderer of bairns.

Now, she found herself standing in the kirk, being married off to Aiden Randall.

Empty. She felt truly empty inside, devoid of any feeling other than fear and self loathing.

’Twas no different than how she felt any other day of her life. With a mother like Helen, any daydreams Margaret may have had as a little girl had been ground into dust and scattered into the wind ages ago.

Nay, this was no fairy-tale wedding.

And, if she had anything to say about it, it wouldn’t be a fairy-tale marriage either.